Memories
by ashhead
Summary: Delia struggles to regain her memories.


It was an overcast morning, a fine mist fogging the windows, leaving a low grey light barely illuminating the room. On her lap was an open book, but even if the light had been enough to read by, her mind couldn't focus on the words. It was a prop, there should her mother enquire, and her mother would enquire. She had been fussing continuously ever since Delia's father had gone back to work. Without him to regulate and soothe her worries, Delia had been receiving her mother's constant fretting.

Her days since she had been brought home had been long and exhausting, trying to force her mind to find some focus, recall any glimmer of her lost memories. The threat of seizures hung over her constantly, and although they had been coming less frequently, the fear of them was ever present. Her nights were no better, long hours of sleeplessness interrupted by short, confusing dreams. So whilst her mother's care was necessary, through the haze of exhaustion and confusion, it was beginning to become oppressive.

Staring at the same four walls for hours on end wasn't helping either. This room evoked no memories for her, despite her doctor's hopes. Instead the lack of a personal connection to everything made the space seem suffocating, so full of another person's life.

So she laid in her bed and stared aimlessly out of the misted windows, at the dark clouds and browning leaves of the trees in the distance, wondering who she was.

"Oh good, you're reading. How are you feeling this morning?" Her mother was bustling already, rearranging Delia's hair and straightening the bed sheets.

"I'm well." Short and to the point, and also a lie, of which they were both aware. Her mother's forced smile was testament to that.

"Good, good. Well I've good news for you. You've got a letter from your friend, Patsy. You remember her? She came to visit you in the hospital."

"No." She was fed up of being asked if she remembered things, she didn't remember anything.

"Right, well I'll leave it here for you to read, when you're feeling up to it."

A letter place was placed on the dresser beside her bed, and a kiss pressed onto her forehead, from which she managed not to flinch. Then she was alone, left to stare out of the window again.

It was the early evening before her attention turned to the letter. By that point the light had been turned on and only blackness was visible through the window. Her mother had been in a fussed a dozen times, but was now distracted downstairs by her father.

The words were fuzzy on the paper, difficult for her to process. She hadn't lost the ability, but she had lost the clarity of mind to make it an easy process. It was a steady hand that had written the letter though, which made the process somewhat easier than it might otherwise be, the letters large and neatly printed.

The post mark on the front of the envelope was dated nearly two weeks earlier and the envelope was open. A hollowness settled in her, a space which she supposed fury and betrayal might once have filled, but she no longer had the ability to feel either.

_Dear Delia_

_It is my sincerest hope that this letter finds you well. You have been sorely missed by all at Nonnatus House, and we are all praying for your recovery. The cubs send their best wishes as well._

_I find that there are a great many things that I would like to ask you, but without knowing your condition I find it difficult to know where to start. I fear I made rather a fool of myself when you were in the hospital. Seeing you so injured gave me quite a shock, and any news of your recovery would be much appreciated. _

_I feel I must tell you that you were correct about the jug in the window, filled with fresh flowers it did look rather beautiful in the morning sun. The flowers were meant for you, and I have enclosed one with this letter, although goodness knows what state it will be in after it has been through the postal system._

_Once you are feeling up to it, I would be glad to visit. Anything that I can do to help speed your recovery I would be glad to do._

_Fondest wishes_

_Patsy_

Delia struggled to make her way through the letter, but she did make it. The words did not kindle any hint of memory of who the person writing was, but the idea that someone out there knew her, and was willing to help, was reassuring. When she shook the envelope, a white flower fell out, somewhat crispy and certainly battered, but in one piece.

She was still cupping it in hands, staring at it as though it could unlock all the secrets in her mind, when her mother came up to help her get ready for bed.

"You read the letter then?"

"Yes," Delia answered but did not take her eyes off the flower she was holding.

"Do you remember her at all, your friend Patsy?"

"No. But she knows who I am. Who I was before the accident. I should write to her, ask her..."

Her mother eyes stated to tear up, and she interrupted, "Delia, love, your father and I know who you are. We love you. You can ask us anything you like."

"You don't know. You weren't there, in London. She knows that I like flowers in the morning sun. And she wants to help."

"We want to help, Delia. Let us help you. And if you want to write to Patsy, you can do that too. Just let us help you."

Delia's eyes were finally torn from the flower by her mother's plea, and she was surprised to see that there were tears on her mother's face, and that her usual cheery manner was replaced by a worn down air. She was even more surprised when she felt tears begin to well up in her own eyes. These were not tears of exhaustion or frustration, but tears of empathy for her mother. She was beginning to feel a connection with the woman who had been fussing over her for all these weeks.

"You are helping, Mam, you are. And the seizures are stopping, I haven't had one in four days. I'm getting better. But I need to know who I am, and I think writing to Patsy will help."

The smile on her mother's face when she called her 'Mam' sent ripples of guilt through Delia. How had she not noticed the damage her indifference was having on her mother? She held her own arms out to embrace her mother, and was rewarded with a tight hug and a rather damp kiss pressed into her forehead.

"Then we'll write to her, in the morning. But it's time to get some rest now."

As her mother turned out the light, a thought occurred to Delia, and she called out, "Do you think it would be possible to have some flowers on the windowsill, so that they catch the morning sun?"

"Of course dear, I'll send you father out for some in the mornig."

Delia was left in the dark, but for the first time she didn't feel like she was suffocating, she felt like she might actually belong in this space.

It was much later, when her parents supposed she would be asleep, although sleep had not claimed her, that she heard whispers on the stairs.

"We did the right thing though, showing her that letter?" That was her father.

"She called me Mam, she hugged me, and she asked for flowers. It helped. She's going to get better. But she wants to write back to that girl, to ask her questions."

"And you're sure there's something... improper... there?"

"Well no, but that girl was so distressed in the hospital, and you read the letter. And it wouldn't be the first time."

"I guess there's nothing we can do about it, if it's going to help her get better."

Delia wasn't sure what to make of that, what could there be that would be improper about this girl? But her mind struggled to focus at the best of times, and the middle of the night was not the best of times. The question slipped from her mind almost as soon as it formed. And it wasn't long before she slipped into a dream in which she danced the night away with a woman with red hair and a red dress.


End file.
